One Coin Two Sides
by everybetty
Summary: post Grave Danger ...Ruminations on Luck, or the lack thereof... NW friendship and chock full o' angst...NOW COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

A/N:There are very good reasons for reviews! Formatting errors for one.Loss of an entire paragraph for another. Thank you,to my eagle-eyed reviewers who noticedsomething missing. That's what I get for uploading at like 2AM, I guess. So consider this editted for format and bleary eyes. Ahem... here we go again... this is Warrick's POV of the end of Nick's rescue at the end of GD, the season five finale ...spoilers for the same, of course. Still don't have any affiliation with the show...damn. Oh, and rated T for language in case you didn't notice.

"You guys, Nick is here!"

Sara slammed her finger down on the map.

For the first time in 24 hours, Warrick felt the tiniest glimmer of hope. He checked the countdown running on his watch. Still time left. Time to find Nick. He put his hand in his pocket and felt the coin still there; rubbed it like it was a talisman.

The drive to the nursery was the longest of his life. Word got out that they had located the place of Nick's imprisonment and every available cop, and some not technically available, joined the convoy. Red and blue flashing lights rivaling all the neon on the Strip lit up the sky for miles. News vans followed behind like hyenas after a lion's kill.

_Now would be the perfect time to commit a crime,_ he thought with grim humor. The outpouring of support didn't surprise him. Nick was very popular with the cops on the beat, something that had made Warrick jealous from time to time. He remembered his appearance at Judge Cohen's house a few years back- the neighbors called the cops on "a black man" hanging out in front of the house. Even after flashing his ID, the cop still gave him hell. Some things never changed, no matter how far he got with this job.

But now, he knew they were here for Nick, and right now, that's all that mattered. They were all blue when it came down to it.

"This is it! I found it! It's here."

Catherine's cry jump-started his heart with renewed adrenaline. He dropped to the ground and began digging in the dirt with his fingers. Someone, _Grissom?_ handed him a shovel and he thrust it deep into the soft earth, tossing great heaps of soil off to the side.

Catherine was screaming at Nick through a pipe she had found. "Nick! Nick, we're here. Hang on!" her cries like a mom who had just realized her child had wandered off and out of her view.

In the midst of his flurry of activity he barely noticed the beeping of his watch. As it grew more insistent he stopped and looked at it as if he had just noticed its appearance on his wrist. _0:00... The countdown. Nick's air. Gone. _So close. Too close. Too close to give up now. He'd always been a lucky man and he was counting on his luck holding out.

The shovel struck something hard and unyielding. He dropped to his knees and began to wipe the dirt away. Plexiglas. And his best friend's face barely visible through the clouded plastic. He was still alive, his struggling within the coffin evident. The next sight knocked the breath from his body. He thought that the web-cam view of Nick was the worst. Seeing Nick with his service piece shoved against his chin, finger tightening on the trigger, live and in living barely-breathing color was a sight he knew would repeat itself in his mind for the rest of his life.

"Hey, put that down. Put that down! We got you. We're gonna get you out of here." And it was finally true. They were going to get him out of there. They'd found him. It was all going to work out. The famous Warrick Brown luck was holding up.

Nick had put the gun down and his feverish brown eyes had locked onto Warrick's green ones. The ants continued to feast on Nick's flesh, swarmed thickly on his face and arms. "We need that fire extinguisher!" Grissom had already warned him it was the best way to kill the ants without doing additional damage to Nick. Greg appeared with the extinguisher and Warrick lifted the corner of the coffin to allow Greg access to Nick and the ants. With great satisfaction he watched the ants freeze dead on Nick's arms.

He heard Sara yell for the paramedics to come. It was all as he had pictured it would end up. Get Nick out and to the hospital. Get him fixed up and back on the job where he belonged. His fingers hooked the lid and began to pull back, his voice echoing his thoughts, "We're getting you out, Nicky. Hold on. We're getting you out."

Catherine's shout brought the whole dream crashing back to Earth. "Everyone out of the hole! That box is ready to explode! …There are charges under the box!"

No. No. Not how it was supposed to be. Not part of the plan. He looked down at his friend struggling mightily within the confines of the box. There was no way Nick would understand why he wasn't being let out. Too close. Can't let a little thing like explosive charges stop the plan from coming together.

It was Grissom who convinced him. Probably the only one who could have, except maybe his Grams.

"Warrick, Catherine's right. Get out of the hole now. I know what we're gonna do. Just trust me."

_Trust me… okay, Grissom. I'm gonna trust you to do right here. Man with a plan. Don't let me down now._

He turned his head to take a _final?_ look at his best friend. His eyes tried to tell Nick to hold on. That he wasn't leaving him. He knew in his heart there was no way Nick could understand, but he'd have plenty of time after to explain it to him. Over beers and a Rangers game. Or maybe just the beers.

He stood and watched as Grissom took his place-_his place!_on top of the box. The scene's surrealism only increased as he heard Grissom addressing Nick as Pancho. Wherever Grissom came up with it, it seemed to work and he saw Nick almost calm for the first time since they'd dug him up.

Grissom sketched out his plan to use the dirt's weight to take Nick's place and after they had the backhoe prepped Warrick stepped back down into the grave to help Grissom finally open the _goddamned _lid. Nick's hand shot out and grabbed onto Grissom's arm as a drowning man going down for the last count would, then fumbled until he found Warrick's hand on his chest, holdinghim firm until his wave of panic subsided.

Letting go of Nick's hand was the second hardest thing he'd had to do that night. He climbed out once the go ahead was given on the backhoe and watched as the carabiner was attached to Nick's belt. Warrick took his place on the rope with the rest of the team and hauled on the count, wrenching Nick from the ground with a bone-jarring landing.

Now, sitting on the bench in the ambulance, he was gratified to feel the firm grasp of Nick's hand back in his. They remained this way for the entirety of the ride to Desert Palms. He could still feel the weight of the coin he carried; less than an ounce in his pocket, but incalculable in his head and heart.


	2. Chapter 2

The fan clicked off. The sudden silence in the box was oppressive and Nick realized what it signaled. The end of his oxygen supply. Just The End. He'd seen the scratch marks and broken nails left behind by other victims trapped and fighting the end. _I'm luckier than them_, he thought bitterly. He had other options. His gun had been left for him; perhaps in whatever mercy his captor had left in his soul. He had made his peace with his loved ones, family and friends. Should they ever find his body… the recorder, he hoped that they found a small measure of comfort in his farewells and reassurances that he knew they had done their best. He had many regrets, but he realized that he truly was made to be a CSI, in the very fiber of his being; because his final regret would be that he didn't know who had done this to him. He had had ample time to mull over every case, every argument, hell, every cross word he had ever uttered and to whom. He had thought back to those who had left their foul imprints on his life up 'til now.

Amy Hendler. In prison, and he was just wrong place, wrong time. Story of his too short life.

Jack Willman. Twenty-five to life. Poor Kristy. He still believed that if she'd had a chance she could've done something good with her life. Hell, even if she kept turning tricks, so she made a few lonely guys happy for a brief time. No harm, no foul. He knew what it was to be lonely.

The babysitter … _what was her name? Melinda…Melissa…Melanie? _Not sure he ever really knew it. Didn't care that he didn't know it. _It was what? Ten minutes? Twenty-five plus years ago?_ He'd seen enough abuse done to kids that he knew he got off relatively scot-free.

Nigel Crane. _I am one, and who am I? _Sara's words echoed through his head. "Twenty-five to life, Nick. It's over." And it had eventually been over. He had moved on - put it past him. Didn't care if Nigel had or not. He wondered briefly what Nigel would think when the news trickled down the prison pipeline that he had died… would Nigel finally get to …_what did Grissom say?….self-actualize. _Maybe now Nigel would be free to assume Nick's life. _Welcome to it, Nigel, old pal. You're still gonna live it behind bars._

So now he was left with this one regret. He had no doubt the team would know, and that would have to be enough. Knew what he had to do. He was shaking so badly he feared he would miss and wind up bleeding, suffering, suffocating nonetheless. He grasped his gun with both hands and placed the barrel to his jaw. Pull the trigger. No more pain. No more fear. No need for oxygen. Oblivion. Eternity. Has to be preferable to this. _Maybe take a few ants with me_. With an involuntary cry he took a breath of the last of his oxygen, grimaced, and began to tighten his finger on the trigger…

A sound. No… wait. More sound. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut. He barely cracked them open. Movement caught the corner of his eye. _Another hallucination…ignore it… _

The darkness in the box receded the tiniest bit. A glimmer of light above his head. He hesitated, finger still tensed on the trigger. More sounds. A voice, calling his name. Warrick. No. Can't be. Oxygen depletion talking.

The voice kept telling him to put down the gun. His hands had grown so weak the gun dropped almost unconsciously. The movement caused the ants to recommence their attack and he groaned at the pain. _It's too much. _He began to shake and sob. _It's too much_. _No more, please. _

On the edge of his consciousness he heard Warrick's voice, but with his ears plugged, his head was filled with the sounds of his gasping, ragged breathing.

An ice-cold blast of vapor struck him, a momentary sting, but …the ants. They'd stopped biting him where the vapor had hit. The other ants though, panicked by the invader attacked with renewed vigor. The pain was excruciating, and there didn't seem to be any part of his exposed flesh that wasn't on fire. A second blast of the extinguisher and the pain abated briefly.

Voices continued to break through the fog. He had seen Warrick through the condensation on the lid. Began to call out to him. To beg to be set free. His hands reached out to him but were stopped inches from his body by the glass lid. Then his friend's face faded from view, and he accepted that. His rescue wasn't coming from out there. _It's coming from in here. _The ants had stopped biting and he accepted that small mercy.

It was then that Nick began to regain hope. If it was just another hallucination, then at least the pain was gone. _Eternity may beckon, but it'll be an easier trip_. And that was enough hope for now.

His vision began to turn black at the edges. And he accepted that. Barely any fight left in him. His tears were unrelenting now, exhaustion seizing his body as it was wracked with sobs. His hands continued to beat vainly against the glass.

An insistent voice now. Yelling at him. _Pancho…_a name from his childhood. His dad. _Cisco? _He was ten years old again. He'd been thrown from his horse and broken his arm. Thought his dad would be mad that he'd been thrown. Stokes men weren't thrown from their mounts. But his dad had gathered him up in his strong arms, the smell of his aftershave, the heat of the Texas sun beating down, the sound of his father's voice murmuring in his ear. It was all there.

He stared at the face peering at him through the fogged-over glass. Couldn't be his dad. But there was that voice. Unrelenting. Firm. He struggled to focus on what the voice was saying. "There may be explosives under the box." _Explosives? No. No. No. Just let me out. Dad…Cisco…just let me out…please. _When the voice commanded him to put his hand on the lid he felt his hand rise of its own accord.

"I need you to stay lying down. Okay? Promise me!"

He echoed the voice. "I promise."

The lid rose in front of him and an arm reached in to push down on his chest. He grabbed the arm. The feel of human contact. Connection. Not alone.

A hand grabbing his now. Dirty and dry, like his own.

Fresh oxygen suffusing his system. Mustering the last of his reserves he forced down his cries, choking back his tears. Gathered strength for what was yet to come. More dirt. Released, only to be buried again. Deep breath. Almost done. Like when the doctor reset his broken arm. His father's firm stare. Don't cry in front of the doctor. Was that regret on his dad's face?

The dirt now. A deluge. Drowning him. _Too fast. Too much_. Then a rush of air and his body was yanked cruelly from the box, descending to Earth. Impact. Pain. Precious air slammed from his body. And a merciful fade to black.

He awoke while the paramedics worked on him. Oxygen. IV. The gentle rocking of the stretcher as it was loaded into the back of the ambulance. Warrick and Catherine piling in after him. He worked his hand free from the blankets. Reaching. Striving for connection again. Warrick's strong hand grabbing his. Catherine's gentle hand on his leg.

He had finally allowed himself to accept this as reality. No more hallucinations. He was out of the box. Orpheus emerging from the gates of Hell. And much as Orpheus had turned around to glance back at Eurydice and found her sucked back into the bowels of Hades, Nick felt his grip on reality leaving him. His breathing became labored. He was back in the box. Not enough oxygen. Lungs not working. The dirt weighing down on his chest. Struggling to pull air through his windpipe. Nothing moving. His vision graying again. Not even enough air to cry. He was sucked back underground.


	3. Chapter 3

Warrick felt Nick's hand tighten suddenly in his. Noticed his face growing red as he began to thrash against the straps holding him to the stretcher. At first he thought it was just an increase in the trembling Nick had been experiencing, but then he noticed that Nick's eyes had grown big as dinner plates and it was obvious he was fighting for air.

"What the fu…Nick! Nick! Damn! What the hell's happening?"

The paramedic shoved Warrick over on the bench and assessed Nick's condition. The oxygen was flowing- it just wasn't making it into the CSI's lungs. He yelled to his partner behind the wheel, "Step on it, Tony!" Tony shot back, "We're about ten minutes out still." The medic got on his radio and called ahead to the ER at Desert Palms. "Palms- this is Bus 4. We've got a male in his thirties, significant coverage of fire ant bites due to confinement at the site. No known previous allergies but it looks like anaphylaxis setting in. Patient is tachy at 150, and diaphoretic. 100 O2 but nothing's moving. IV d5W administered at scene."

"Roger that, Bus 4. Hang on."

Warrick felt Catherine's hand take the place that Nick's had had mere moments before. _No. No. Nuh-uh. Not after all this. He's out. He's with us. This isn't happening… _he looked up at Cath and read the same fear and disbelief in her eyes.

"Bus 4. Doc says previous allergy not necessary with extreme cases of envenomation. Start with Eppy and bring him in. Stat."

"Roger that, Palms." He pulled a pre-filled syringe out of his kit and, popping the cap off, and quickly swabbing off an area on Nick's shoulder, pushed the medication into his system. "Eppy on board. Time out is…Tony?" "Five minutes!" "Five minutes, Palms."

"Roger that 4. We'll be ready. Bring him on in."

Warrick looked for some sign that the epinephrine was helping, but Nick was still obviously struggling and the haunted look in his eyes was that of a trapped animal. Warrick had to avert his gaze and wrested his eyes from his friend's. There was no recognition in Nick's eyes. He was obviously consumed with his battle to breathe.

Catherine had begun to weep, broken down with desperate sobs, for the first time since the whole thing started. Warrick wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her head into his chest, whispering reassurances to her. "We're almost there, Cath. My boy's a fighter. He got this far…we'll get him the rest of the way there." She looked up into his eyes, wanting to believe him. "I promise, Cath. Hey. Look who's talking here - I don't make promises I can't keep, okay?"

As the bus pulled into the hospital bay Warrick grabbed Catherine's hand and caught her as she jumped from the back of the ambulance out of the medic's way. A nurse and a doctor ran out of the ER bay doors and grabbed the stretcher, the medic continuing his litany of vitals and meds. "First Eppy IM five minutes ago. No noticeable response. Still tachy at 150."

The stretcher was pulled into the ER and behind a set of steel swinging doors and Nick was gone from view again.

Warrick lead Catherine to a set of hard plastic chairs and took the one next to her. They sat, dazed, not speaking, not sharing their fears - instead letting them have free rein in their heads. A few minutes later the rest of the team arrived. Warrick was the one that had to break the bad news to them- Catherine was still too shattered, barely even noticing the team's arrival.

Grissom only nodded. While he hadn't expected this exactly, he knew enough about Hymenopterans that he wasn't surprised. In fact, he realized that it was probably inevitable with the sheer volume of venom Nick would have received. He could have spoken to the group at length about all he knew of _Solenopsis invicta_ envenomation, but he was too tired and too depressed and he knew that the group would get no comfort from his lecture.

The group slouched in various places in the ER waiting room, paying no heed to the rest of the waiting patients and family staring at them. Uniformed cops had begun streaming in, asking for updates, then hanging around when nothing concrete was forthcoming. The waiting area was soon teeming with cops from LVPD and Clark County. The squawking of their radios was a constant din of garbled conversations from those not at the hospital calling in for their own news.

Warrick got up and began to pace the length of the waiting area. On his ninth or tenth circuit he didn't wheel around to pace back the other way - he kept right on going- picking up speed -and walked back out through the ER doors. The warmth of summerin Vegas brought him up short andwrapped around him, oppressive after the coolness of the ER. Sweat immediately broke out on his forehead and he reached into his pocket for a tissue, instead feeling the ridged edge of the coin in his pocket. He took it out and stared at Kennedy's head glinting in the security lights.

_You know, I'd do two out of three, but you got a gambling problem…Hey, you know what? You keep this. It's bad luck. _

Warrick didn't really know what bad luck was. Sure he'd had stretches where his luck was off- pretty sizable losses on big game wagers- crappy nights at the blackjack table. But all in all, he'd always come out ahead. He'd always had some green in his pocket and not many worries. No debts. No threats. And his gambling problem? Hadn't turned out to be that much of a problem. Cleaning up his act was pretty easy… easier than it was supposed to be.

His professional life had cruised along pretty well. Hell, everyone knew he was Grissom's Number One Son. His favorite. Grissom had come right out and told him he was being groomed to take over the lab when the day came that the boss was ready to throw it all in. He found the job pretty easy, actually. Took to it naturally. Not bragging. Just how it was.

Hell, he even had a great girl. Tina was smart and sexy and easy on the eyes. She was a social worker he'd met at the Boys and Girls Club back in his old 'hood, hence her inherent distrust of the police. She'd seen enough bad stuff go down. He'd been hanging around the club playing hoops with some of the kids and had caught her eye. They'd talked over coffee and he remembered the look on her face when he told her what he did for a living. It took weeks for him to break down her barriers. But he'd done it. As he knew he would.

He felt his phone vibrating in his pocket and pulled it out. Recognized the number on the ID and saw the text message "five missed calls". _Damn! _

"Brown."

"Ricky?"

"Yeah, hey, Grams. I'm sorry. It's been a rough night."

"It's been all over the news that a CSI was in trouble. I was so scared, Ricky. I'm so relieved it wasn't you. But…was it one of your friends?"

"Yeah, Grams. It's Nicky. But we got him back. I'm outside Desert Palms now."

"Oh, that poor boy. Always so nice when you bring him by. Is he going to be okay?"

"Not sure yet, Grams. The doctors are working on him now."

He debated telling his grandmother about the coin toss. That it could have …should have been him in the box. But she wasn't as strong as she once was and didn't want to burden her with that fear.

"Oh, baby… why don't you come on by? You know I don't sleep much nowadays. I could make you milk and Pepsi and you could tell me about it."

_Milk and Pepsi. Haven't had that in years…_ saw it on a TV show as a little kid and had begged his Grams to make it for him. It was their routine for a while. First as a kid coming home from playing ball outside all afternoon. Then when he'd come home from college and they'd sit and jaw 'til all hours of the night, drinking milk and Pepsi and scarfing down plates of her oatmeal cookies.

He was sorely tempted. He'd always found solace in her company. She'd been a bastion of strength in his childhood, a refuge to escape the mean streets and the meaner school hallways. And later, as an adult, he had always turned to her for advice. But solace wasn't what he wanted. No…he didn't _deserve_ solace. Not while his best friend was fighting for his life. He owed Nick that much…and more.

"Thanks, Gram. Think I'll stick around here for a while. But I appreciate the offer, you know."

"I understand, Ricky. You be there for your friend. Tell him my thoughts and prayers are with him and his family. And with you, love. He's a good boy. He's been there for you, I know."

"Yeah, Grams. He has. And he will be."

"I'm sure he will, baby. You know I love you."

"Love you too, Grams. I'll call as soon as I can, 'kay?"

"All right, dear. G'night"

"'Night."

He shut the phone and put it back into his pocket. Returned to staring at the coin.

An irrational thought raced its way through his mind, gaining speed and insistence.

He made a silent wager in his head…_Heads, Nick lives…_

And he spun the coin into the air…


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: sorry to break up the rhythm, but Warrick gets this chapter as Nick is …umm…unavailable.

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The coin reached its apogee, and returned back to Earth to land in his palm. He quickly inverted his hand onto the back of the other, covering the outcome from view.

He paused, unwilling to commit. Determination lit his green eyes and he pulled his hand away. Kennedy's profile stared back up at him. Before he could fully work out the ramifications of his ill advised wager a commotion out in the ambulance bay caught his attention. It was Archie with Nick's folks. And the news vans parked there spilled reporters out in droves to surround them. Warrick slipped the coin back in his pocket and ran over to them, slipping his arm around Mrs. Stokes and helping Archie rush them towards the bay doors to the ER.

Flash bulbs fired off like mini solar flares against the dark of the night. A few reporters that got too close got strong-armed back by the two men amid shouts of, "Mr. and Mrs. Stokes? How does it feel knowing your son was buried alive for twenty-four hours!" and "What is the CSI's condition!"

"He's not a CSI! He's their son. Back off! I _said_, 'Back the _fuck_, off!'"

They made it to the haven of the doors and a few of the cops that had been waiting around were attracted by the shouting and placed their uniformed bulks in front of the doors like Rottweilers, arms crossed over their chests, daring any of the reporters to try to enter the ER.

Once in the relative quiet of the waiting area they stopped, gathering their bearings. Judge Stokes turned to Archie and Warrick and thanked them for their assistance. Then, gently taking his wife's arm, he steered her towards the front desk to get an update on their son's condition.

Warrick knew the charge nurse had just broken the news of Nick's downturn when he saw Jillian Stokes crumple against her husband's shoulder, her body trembling with silent sobs.

He turned away from the sight, not knowing Nick's parents well enough to feel comfortable offering any support. He instead turned to Archie and stuck his hand out. "Thanks for bringing them, Man. I forget sometimes that people have family outside of us."

Archie mumbled something about it being all right and just wanting to help. It dawned on Warrick that of them all, Archie had spent the most time with Nick, albeit at the other end of the web-cam. But the AV Tech had spent the last day pretty much keeping vigil at the computer screen. He would have seen what Warrick had seen… the sight of Nick ready to give up, with his gun shoved against his chin. In fact…from his view, he would have seen the end when the grave blew up…

"How did you know we were here, Arch? I mean, how did you know we got him out?"

"I didn't. I saw you and Grissom open the box, and once the lid was open, the feed was in the lid… so then my view was of Grissom talking to Nick, then the carabiner…then …well ... you know… _boom_. I didn't know what to tell his folks. I was pretty much just waiting for a call. Grissom called me from the truck on his way over here. So…how is Nick doing?"

Warrick filled him in as best he could, itching to tell him about the coin toss, but at the last minute realizing how insane it would sound. How could he tell people he _knew_ Nick was gonna make it, 'cuz of a _coin toss_?

Warrick walked over with Archie to rejoin the rest of the group. Catherine approached Warrick, slipping her arm around his middle. "Did you get some air? Do you any good?"

"Yeah, Cath. It did me good. Remember, I made you a promise. Our boy is gonna be just fine. You wait. You'll see," he reassured her, giving her a squeeze back.

"I wish I had your confidence, Rick. You got a connection with the Big Guy upstairs?" she asked, looking up at the ceiling, then back into his eyes. There was such calmness there. Serenity in the midst of the tempest of worry and fear written over the rest of their faces.

"Nah. Just a feeling, I guess."

Half an hour later, a doctor approached Nick's parents, Jillian's hands visibly tightening on her husband's arm. From the slight relaxation of their demeanors, it appeared that the news was favorable. The team got up in unison, taking hesitant steps towards the three. Jillian turned towards the group and, recognizing their concern and eagerness for news, she waved them over with a small motion of her hand. She caught a look from her husband, but merely patted his back in a gentle effort to shush him. As the group approached the doctor brought them into their discussion. Nick was stable and improving. He'd spend the night in the Cardiac Care Unit so they could monitor his heart, but his cardiac enzymes looked promising- no permanent damage to his heart, and the anaphylaxis had been brought under control. He'd been sedated and there'd be no visitation tonight, but maybe the next day.

Catherine let out a small cry of relief and let out a huge breath. She looked at Warrick, but saw the oddest expression on his face. Confirmation. He had honestly been expecting this news…as if it was a foregone conclusion. When he looked down at her it was gone, replaced by his usual easy smile. He gave her a big smooch on the cheek then bent back with a whoop and a laugh.

Arrangements were hastily made amongst the team to meet up as soon as they had been given the word they could come back to see Nick, then the group slowly dissolved. Catherine went home to smother Lindsey with hugs and kisses, the way she did whenever she had a particularly bad night. Grissom said he'd be going back to the lab, and Sara asked to catch a ride back with him. Greg and Archie would take Nick's parents to the hotel, then probably drink and play video games til dawn. Brass wiped a hand down his face and said something about paperwork and a Scotch.

Warrick debated going home. Then thought about going to Tina's. But they hadn't yet reached that stage where he felt comfortable pouring his heart out to her. Maybe someday…but not tonight. It occurred to him that it would usually be Nick he'd turn to. To share ups and downs. Nick was the only one he'd told about Tina. Nick was the one who stayed with him last year when his Grams was brought into the hospital with pneumonia. He and Nick had celebrated their promotions together, and Nick was the one who was at his side after he'd realized the woman he was falling deeply in like/lust with was a heroin addict.

His whole body felt electrified. He had energy to spare, needed to burn it off…or better yet…keep the high going.

He got into the truck and started driving. Found himself on the strip and was momentarily mesmerized by the flashing neon of the casinos and the garish signage of the XXX shows. But he didn't want tourists. Didn't want to share a bar or a table with a drunken couple from New Jersey here on their tenth wedding anniversary. So he kept driving. And found himself back in his old stomping grounds. He pulled up outside a casino on the outskirts of the neighborhood he grew up in.

Entering the front doors he was struck by how much _hadn't_ changed. Same bar and stools. Same banks of slot machines. Old school slots. None of those fancy video game looking ones. Sevens, bars, and cherries.

A few old-timers perched in front of them, feeding in rolls of quarters. Smoke thicker than fog, tinged with the sharp spicy scent of marijuana. A roulette wheel tended by a guy who looked like he was pulling double duty as the craps dealer. Stevie Wonder on the jukebox…_Superstition._

He wandered over to the blackjack table and pulled out a wad of bills. Cashed them in for a hundred bucks in chips. The waitress came over and offered him a drink. He ordered a whiskey and water, knowing here there'd be more water than whiskey in it. He didn't want to dull his edge. Needed to keep the fire going.

First hand, a stiff. Twelve showing. Hit me. He got an eight. Dealer pulled a seventeen. Next hand, a snapper- ace of hearts and the ten of spades. Next hand he had fourteen. The dealer had an eight up. Hit me. He pulled a seven. The dealer showed eighteen.

This continued for the next hour, the pile of chips in front of him steadily growing.

He played silently, intently. No conversation with the dealer. No flirting with the waitress. Staring at the cards. No hesitation.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Bernie, the manager of the casino. Glad-handing him - congratulating him on his streak. Warrick knew he was trying to break his concentration. The manager bought him another whiskey from the bar. Barely touched by water. Too strong. Knew they were trying to get him drunk.

He looked at the pile of chips. He'd amassed five thousand dollars. He sat back. He knew this wasn't a big conglomerate owned casino with a massive bank. This was a penny ante place for the neighbor hood to use. Five large was gonna hurt them. He tossed back the drink and packed up his chips and handed them to the cashier. Tossed the dealer and the waitress a Benjamin each and walked out into the night, his pockets heavy with his winnings, and a single silver dollar coin.


	5. Chapter 5

It had been four days since they'd liberated Nick from his Plexiglas prison. His first night and day were spent in the CCU, but his tachycardia had faded along with the anaphylaxis and he was transferred down to the regular ward for the remainder of his stay. Friends and family were a constant presence at his bedside, but he was kept pretty well sedated in order to give his body the rest it needed to heal.

As his sedation was decreased visits became briefer and awkward. The remaining sedation left Nick dazed and groggy and he tended to say illogical things and laugh at inappropriate times. He seemed genuinely happy to see people for the most part, but none of them could shake the thought that it was only the narcotics talking. He acted like he was in for appendicitis - he never mentioned anything about his experience, and talk was kept to funny things that Hodges said in the lab or who had scored what in the game of the night. During most of his visits he'd fall asleep briefly, then his eyes would spring open wildly, unfocused, unseeing. He'd finally fix on his current visitor and continue talking, usually about something completely off topic.

Now on the fourth day, Grissom had called Warrick into his office. Grissom had been Nick's last visitor of that day and had had a disturbing conversation with Nick. He filled Warrick in and as Grissom' tale unfoldedWarrick's stomach sank.

"His sedation has been pretty much ended. The visit started off as usual…my best attempt at small talk. His mental faculties are returning and for the first time he began to ask me questions about that night. He wanted to know who had been responsible. I tried to explain as best I could, that it was Walter Gordon's blind rage…that it was nothing personal or anything he himself had done…just …I don't know…bad luck?"

At this, Warrick winced. His hand reached into his pocket and began to play nervously with the coin he'd taken to carrying with him, for reasons he didn't quite understand. He just knew he took great comfort in its presence.

"He seemed to accept this but the way his face fell…" Grissom sighed. "I thought that'd be it, but his next question… I guess I just wasn't prepared…"

"_How did you find me?"_

_Grissom paused, unsure how to explain. He tried to gauge Nick's ability to get this news, and realized that there would be no ducking this question._

"_There was a web cam."_

"_A what? A camera? …How…where?"_

"_It was in the lid of the … box. Gordon sent it to us."_

"_How long?"_

"_Pretty much right after he took you, Nick."_

"_The whole time …?"_

"_Yes, Nick. He wanted us to-"_

"_Who?"_

"_Who …? Who what, Nick?"_

"_Who saw it?"_

"_It was sent to the lab." _

"_Who. Saw. It?_

"_We all did, Nick." _

"He shut down. Said something about being tired and asked me to leave." Another sigh. "I knew he'd have to find out sometime…I just wasn't expecting it to be me that would tell him. I was hoping that maybe you could talk to him."

Warrick shrugged. _I'll give it a shot._

Shift ended and he ran back to his place to freshen up and grabbed a fast-food breakfast sandwich to fill the hole. He had the pedal to the floor when he realized that visiting hours wouldn't have started yet for the morning, and eased up on the gas. He ran into a Kwik-E Mart and grabbed an extra large coffee, and another small one for Nick. At the counter he looked down through the glass and saw the spread of instant lottery tickets. One was called "Crime Does Pay" and it had a little masked cartoon character with a huge bag of loot on his back. It was a dollar ticket, and the payout was an instant thousand dollars. He had the cashier add one to his purchase and he walked back to the truck, reading the instructions on the ticket.

He pulled out the silver dollar coin and rubbed off the grey scratch-off material. There it was, third from the left in the bottom row. Amidst the rows of closed doors, an open door, signifying a win. He rubbed off the remaining grey to see what he'd won. Top prize. One thousand dollars. He shoved the ticket and the coin back into his pocket and headed off to the hospital.

He entered Nick's room and passed by the foot of the first bed currentlyoccupied by a huge guy with his leg up in a traction cast. He was sound asleep, and his TV was on. Some early morning women's program.

Warrick rounded the curtain and expected to see Nick in bed, but the bed was empty, its former occupant sitting in a chair looking out the window.

Nick was wearing only hospital issue PJ bottoms and had a blanket thrown on the back of the chair. When he noticed Warrick's presence he pulled the blanket down a bit over his shoulders, but not before Warrick saw the havoc that had been wreaked on his friend's body. His arms were covered in gauze where the bites were the worst, and he had ace bandages wrapped around his chest. His shoulders and elbows were covered in yellowing bruises. Warrick realized he must have gotten them thrashing around in the box.

Nick saw him staring and pulled the blanket tighter. "Broke a few ribs after my flight through the air," he said with a wry smile.

"Yeah, I'll bet. Hey, Bro. Looking better. Good to see you out of that damn bed."

Nick's gaze returned to the window. "Yup. Doc says I'll probably go home tomorrow."

"That's great, Man. Hey. You need anybody to stay with you for a while, I bet people will be lined up to volunteer. Me included."

"Nah. Thanks though. My mom and dad'll probably stick around a bit longer, and I'll have a home care nurse change the bandages and stuff. 'Preciate the offer, though," he said, his eyes never leaving the window.

"Oh. Yeah. That makes sense. Your moms wouldn't want to let you out her sight, I guess." _Nice way to put it…_

Nick's shoulders fell at the remark. "Yeah. She's pretty freaked."

Warrick stood there, not knowing what else to say. How many years had it been? And he couldn't think of a single goddamn word to say to his best friend.

Nick realized that Warrick was still standing there and broke away from his trance-like stare outside. "Hey, new watch? Looks like a Rolex? You didn't buy that off of one of those street vendors did ya?" he asked with a small laugh.

Warrick self-consciously pulled his sleeve down over the new Rollie he'd treated himself to on a whim, the night after his blackjack haul. "Yeah. I smashed mine at a scene yesterday. DB found wedged in a storm drain. Turns out the drunken fool had bet his buddy he could fit and got stuck. His friend was so drunk he passed out and came to to find the fool had asphyxiated on his own vomit in the drain. So he left." The lie left his tongue easily, but left a bad taste behind.

They made small talk for a while, their conversation circling and never really meeting in the middle.

Warrick sighed. "So, I was talking to Grissom last night--"

"You know what, Warrick. I'm really wiped. Maybe we oughta cut this short." He eased himself slowly out of the chair and sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from his friend.

"Yeah… I don't wanna wear you out. You…umm… you want me to stick around for a bit?"

"No, thanks. I don't like it when people watch me while I'm sleeping. I'll catch you later." And with that he curled up on the bed and closed his eyes.

Warrick stood there a few seconds, then gave a small unheeded wave and left the room, not even the annoying voices from the TV and the stentorian snoring from the room's other occupant shattering the silence left in his wake.


	6. Chapter 6

His home was empty. Finally. The last week after his release had been a flood of visitors- hovering, talking, eating, joking. Concerned. Attentive. … Smothering. Overwhelming.

The constant babble had at first been comforting. It helped to ground him in reality. But lately, he'd had a bit too much reality. And the babble had become a dull roar in his ears, threatening to drown him out.

He'd sent his parents packing with a peck on the cheek for mom and a manly handshake for dad and promises to call often.

With a sigh and a wave as the taxi pulled away he shut the door and walked into his living room. He gathered up the get-well cards and stuffed animals that had seemed to propagate themselves and had covered every spare inch of his formerly neat abode and pulled a trash bag out from under the sink, stuffing it to the top. A white bear with a frown holding an umbrella that said "Sorry you're feeling under the weather" stared out from the top of the bag with little beady glass eyes. With a disgusted sound he pulled the bag closed and threw it into a corner in his kitchen, wincing at the pain that remained in his broken ribs.

He stared at his kitchen countertops, crowded with aluminum foiled casserole dishes and boxes of baked goods. _Looks like there's been a goddamned wake here_.

Throwing up his hands in defeat he walked back into the living room and began to throw himself down on the couch, slowing when his ribs protested.

He eased his head back and listened to the new silence. Someone was cutting their grass in the neighborhood. There was a fly on his picture window. Banging and buzzing against the glass. He got up and grabbed a magazine to swat the fly, then changed his mind and waved it back out the front door. He was about to shut the door when he saw a familiar truck pull in. Warrick. Bigger sigh. He just wasn't up to a visit. Especially from Warrick. The easy relationship they'd had had somehow become awkward and, to be frank, damned uncomfortable. He saw his friend coming up the walk and pasted a smile on his face and gave a wave of greeting.

He let him into the front room and took the chair, settling back for another marathon session of circuitous small talk and embarrassing pauses.

"Your folks gone?"

"Yup."

"You should've called. I'd have taken them over to McCarran for you."

" 'Sall right. They called a taxi."

"Ummm, so you have any beer?"

"You want a beer?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Sure."

"…Is there a game on?"

"Yeah. I think there's an NCAA game on four. You can turn it on if you want. I'll grab the beer."

As he looked in the fridge he glanced back at his friend digging around for the remote. Lifting couch cushions, and pushing aside piles of magazines. It made him smile, to see such a familiar sight.

He came back to the room and handed over a beer. "A Bud for my bud." Genuine smile.

"Oh, Man. Budweiser? What's with the ghetto beer? You always had the primo stuff before."

"Yeah, well, my mom bought it. Don't think she's up on her microbrews. Shut up and drink your swill."

Reaching to the top of the TV he grabbed the remote, which had been sitting there in plain view. "Looking for this?"

They turned the game on and quickly got caught up in the action and sports talk.

The game over, Nick shut the TV off, and for the first time in what seemed like forever he didn't feel the need to rush his guest out the door.

His new sense of happiness died quickly when it became apparent that Warrick wanted to Talk. He didn't want to Talk. He wanted to hang with his friend and be Normal Guy again. He mentally sighed, and realized he owed it to his friend to let him have his say.

Warrick began with platitudes about how brave Nick was and quickly deteriorated into babbling about how if _he'd _been in the box he never would have made it_. Blah blah blah. Hate to break it to you…It _wasn't you _in the box, bud. It was me. Me. Wow. Angry much, Stokes?_

"Nick?"

"Yeah. Sorry. Zoned out there for a second. I'm really beat, Bro. Don't have much stamina right now."

"Nightmares?"

_Duh._ "Not so much."

He saw his friend giving him a wooly eye and he quickly covered. "Didn't you hear, Rick? I found religion. I now worship at the altar of the little yellow pill. Ambien, Man. The penicillin for the mentally unbalanced insomniac." He laughed, but his words had a hollow ring. "I'm serious. One of those babies and I'm out like a light."

"Great. That's…great. I guess I should take off then, huh? Sure you don't want me to stick around? Your first night home alone and all that…"

"I told you. I don't like people around when I'm sleeping." He averted his eyes as he heard the anger that had crept into his voice. Cleared his throat. "I mean, c'mon, Man. Sleeping is for snoring, scratching, farting, and morning woodies. No one needs an audience for that." He attempted a laugh and looked to see if his friend was appeased. "Sorry, Rick. I've got a bit of cabin fever and I'm not my normal jolly self."

"Yeah. I guess you have been housebound for what…a week now? I'd be pretty cranky myself. Well, I'll let myself out. Check you later?"

"You bet."

The door closed and Nick sighed and rubbed his face with both hands.

_Time to hit the hay. _

Or not.

He turned the TV back on and flipped channels mindlessly.

--_Set it, and Forget it!_

_--ferry carrying four hundred passengers sank today in-_

_--Bruce! You told me you had left Janet-_

_--it's Bryant! -and it's good for three-_

_--only if you need to lose ten pounds or more-_

_Click. Click. Click._


	7. Chapter 7

Warrick sauntered up the front walk with a spring in his step. His best friend had now been out of the hospital a couple of weeks, and the last few visits had been more like old times. Chinese take-out and bull sessions. Games on the tube. He still hadn't talked his friend into heading out anywhere with him. He claimed it was the bite scars that lingered on his face and arms, but he'd dropped enough hints that Warrick had been able to figure out it was more the prospect of crowds that freaked his friend out. But he thought he might have the answer in the back of a neighbor's pick-up truck.

His knock on the door was answered by a half-clad Nick, toweling off his hair. Nick swung the door open for him and walked back to the bedroom to finish getting dressed. Just the fact that he'd let Warrick see him without his shirt on had been a good omen. He'd seemed to wear his bites, bruises, and bandages as badges of shame and had made every effort to cover them from sight, to the extent of wearing long sleeved shirts in summer. In Las Vegas. Needless to say, he'd been rockin' the central air.

Nick shouted out from the bedroom for him to grab a beer. "And the remote is back on top of the TV, where I _always_ leave it!" he finished with a laugh.

He emerged from the bedroom barefoot and in a blue chambray long sleeved shirt and a pair of ratty jeans to find Warrick still standing there, rocking back and forth on his heels, with a foolish grin on his face. "Dude. What are you doing? Grab a beer and a seat. Those pilsners are still in there from the two-four you bought the other night."

Warrick rubbed his hands in anticipation. "Nope. Got a better idea. Let's get out of this place. I know _I'm_ getting tired at staring at these walls. You've gotta be going outa your skull. C'mon. Nick Stokes, I'd like to introduce you to the outside."

Nick was already shaking his head but Warrick threw his hand up to stop him. "Nope. Not 'til you've seen what I brought." He could tell Nick was hesitant, but definitely intrigued. _Got him!_

He walked back to the front door and made an elaborate gesture of ushering Nick out first. He watched as his friend blinked like a mole in the bright afternoon sunlight, then gestured with his head to get Nick to step further out into the driveway and led him around the back of the pickup truck. Perched in the bed of the truck were two dirt bikes.

He relished the glimpse of the first excitement he'd seen in his friend's eyes in way too long. "I remembered you told me how you used to ride back home. Thought we could check out a few trails. What do ya think?"

Nick gave him a look. "Where did you get them?"

"Bought 'em off a friend of a friend."

"You _bought_ them? Rick- these would've set you back - jeez - five k?"

_More like seven._ "Nah. Dude had a gambling debt he had to pay off and I got 'em for practically nothing. C'mon. Quit jawing and go get your kicks on."

They drove north until they came to an area of the desert that had been laid out with dirt bike trails. This time of the afternoon there weren't many people there, and those that were there were busy on their bikes. He saw Nick staring out at the expanse of bright sand and realized that he'd rarely seen his friend without his ubiquitous sunglasses on. He reached into the glove box and dug around, emerging with a pair of beat up plastic sunglasses and handed them to Nick, who put them on without a word. He looked more like the old Nick already, ugly sunglasses notwithstanding.

They unloaded the bikes from the back of the truck and he watched as Nick set himself up on one, refamiliarizing himself with the gears and pedals. He grabbed them each a helmet out of the backseat and waited to make sure Nick was ready. He watched as Nick fired up the bike, a grin spreading on his face, and handed him the helmet. As he reached over his sleeve pulled up and Nick noticed he was wearing a different watch. "Hey, Rick what happened to your Rolex?" He asked, making air quotes at Rolex. "Did it crap out on you already?"

"Yeah. Damn thing died the other day."

"That's what you get buying those shitty Chinese knockoffs, my friend."

"Yeah. Lesson learned. So, you ready?"

"Yeah. Riding a bike is like…riding a bike, I guess," he said with a laugh. He stepped on the gas, let out the clutch and took off at a respectable pace, not too much of a wobble at the beginning, then he evened out and sped off.

_Not bad, Nicky. Not bad._ Warrick revved up and took off after his friend.

They'd been riding for about an hour. Warrick was pleased to see a fresh new sunburn on his friend's former pallor. His plan had worked out better than he'd hoped for. Nick had taken to the bike like he'd never stopped riding, and was actually turning out to be a better rider than Warrick, who'd grudgingly given his buddy props for his superior riding skills.

They hit a straightaway and Nick poured on the gas, flying without fear. That's when the rabbit decided that he'd rather be on the other side of the trail. He hopped two feet out, then stopped, frozen at the sound of the engine revving at him at top speed. Nick barely had time to note the animal's presence. He swerved away, the bike riding up on the hard packed dirt ridge along the trail and losing traction, he laid the bike down and rolled off into the scrub that grew everywhere in the desert.

Warrick braked and ran over to his friend to find Nick sitting on the ground, knocking the sand and dirt off his jeans. He accepted an extended hand and stood up slowly and shakily, mumbling a string of profanities to himself. Warrick was a bit taken aback by the obscenities. Nick had always been a pretty soft-spoken guy and usually reserved the choicer words in his vocabulary for situations where he was talking about crimes involving kids.

"Jeez, Bro. Nice spill. You alright?"

"Yeah. Set my ribs back a few weeks, though, I think." Another few whispered profanities. "Is the rabbit okay?"

_Leave it to Nick to be more concerned about some damn bunny rabbit… _"Yeah. It took off. You never hit it. You sure you're okay? Damn, that was a hell of a tumble you took."

"Yeah, I'm fine. Let's check out the bike."

The bike was none the worse for wear, better than it's rider.

A much more subdued Nick saddled back on the bike and took off his helmet to wipe the sweat from his brow. "Sun's going down pretty soon. Maybe we oughta head back, huh?

"Nick, Man. It wasn't your fault. You were doing great. It was just bum luck that rabbit crossed your path."

"Yeah, I know." He buckled his helmet strap and gave Warrick a dark look. "You ready?" And without waiting for a response he revved his bike and took off back to the parking area.

Nick barely spoke the entire time they were loading the bikes back onto the truck and spent the drive back to his house staring out the passenger side window, slumped against the seat.

Warrick pulled into his drive and Nick turned to him with a sad smile on his face. "Thanks, Rick. I had a great time. I really needed to get out. This was great. Really great, I mean it." He got out, walked up to his house, and entered, shutting the door behind him without looking back.

Warrick sighed. _Yeah, 'Great.' _


	8. Chapter 8

Nick shut the door behind him, and stayed leaning against the door, trying to figure out why he was so pissed off. And why was he pissed off at his best friend? The gesture Warrick had made with the dirt bikes was just about the most touching thing he'd ever had done for him. The man could lie all he wanted, but he didn't get them for 'nothing'. It had been a fantastic day right up til the end…til the stupid rabbit. _May as well have been a black cat. More bad luck crossing my path…_

That's really what it was. It was a stupid accident. He hadn't gotten too badly hurt. Just his pride. But he'd hated wiping out in front of his friend and getting that _look_ again. The fearful look, mixed with the _what the hell did you do to yourself now_? look. The look he got when he got back to the lab after the Hendler thing. The look he'd gotten when Warrick had brought him to the hospital after Nigel threw him through the window. The look when he foolishly told Catherine about the babysitter. The look he'd seen when they took him out of that godforsaken box. Pity. That's what it was. Pity and guilt. And he was getting really fucking tired of it. The head shake. _Poor Nicky_.

_It was just bum luck that rabbit crossed your path._

_It was nothing personal you did to Walter or Kelly Gordon, Nick…it was just …I don't know…bad luck?_

_I don't think it was about you, Nick. Or Jane Galloway, for that matter. I think it was more about Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. _

"Bullshit!" He yelled to his empty house.

_Did that solve anything, Stokes? There's no one here. Maybe you really are crackin' up…_

He sighed and pushed off from the front door. Grabbed a beer and eased himself back down on to the couch, his ribs an annoying reminder of his stupid accident.

Sighed again when he remembered the stupid freaking remote was on top of the TV…'_where I always leave it'…_

He didn't even have the energy to get up and snag the remote. Considered the pile of magazines and work journals on his coffee table. Most had already been thumbed through at least once.

He looked at his watch. Still early. But he was wiped from their afternoon out. Maybe he could try sleeping.

_Sleeping…now that's a novel concept there, Nicky my boy._

He hadn't been totally lying when he told Warrick about the Ambien. The first few nights home from the hospital when he was still physically sick and exhausted, the sleeping pills had done wonders. He'd slept through most nights. After he began to heal and his body didn't need so much sleep, the nightmares came. The Ambien sometimes took the edge off. Especially when he doubled or trebled the dose. But his thirty-day supply was already down to a few pills.

_I could tell the pharmacy I spilled them down the drain…like they haven't heard that one before…_

_Well, they haven't heard it from me. Yet._

He considered asking his psychiatrist for a stronger dose, but didn't want to let that weakness show. He was supposed to be showing improvement. If he had any chance at getting back to work any time soon he had to do better.

_Might as well start with a good night's sleep…worry about the pills at the next appointment._

He groaned and got off the couch, and shuffled towards the bathroom. A quick look in the mirror showed fresh scratches from the scrub brush he'd rolled into. Another lovely reminder…

Okay…first things first. Hot shower. Shower door definitely open, tile be damned.

Next, grab the pills. Amber bottle with a small handful of little yellow pills left in the bottom. Take one…two? Definitely two. Go back to the kitchen and grab another bottle of beer. Strictly for medicinal purposes. Wash pills down with same. Grab a pain pill. Lortab. Supposed to be mostly Tylenol anyway. Can't hurt, and his ribs did. Wash down with remainder of beer.

He'd taken to using a window fan to block out daytime noise when he was working nights. He'd bought the biggest, loudest fan he could find. It sounded like a jet engine on high. Fan on? Check.

Paperback on the night table. A crappy crime procedural that he enjoyed more for picking apart the errors the author made.

_Why did going to bed feel like planning the attack on Normandy?_

With what he hoped was his final sigh for the night he crawled under the covers, enjoying his central air on high. Fluffed the pillow up under his head and grabbed the paperback.

Half an hour later he was sound asleep, the light on his bedside table still on.

And when the nightmares came later that night, he woke, turned off the light, and was back asleep in minutes.


	9. Chapter 9

_This is more like it. This is the way things should be…and haven't been in so freaking long._

Warrick gazed around the table at the group that had gathered to celebrate Nick's imminent return to the lab. It had been a long eight weeks. It was now high summer in Vegas and things at the lab had unfortunately picked up quite a bit. Heat and crowds and tourists and anger brought about by the first three things all led to one inevitable thing. An upswing in accidental deaths, assaults and murders. The group was laying out the details to the last case they'd worked, involving two meth heads who had shot each other over their last Eskimo Pie.

"You sure it wasn't a Klondike Bar?" Nick asked, laughing. "You know…_what would you do-oo-oo for a Klondike Bar?_" he sang in that great off-key voice he had. That cracked the group up to no end and Sara was practically in tears, literally holding her sides. Even Grissom twitched a small smirk onto his face.

"Oh, Nick. Keep your night job, would ya?" Greg snarked.

"To my night job!" Nick raised his iced tea in a toast and everyone joined in with his or her beverage of choice.

When they had first gathered it was with some trepidation on Warrick's part. There was still an odd vibe around whenever the two got together. Everything looked on the surface like normal. They'd taken the bikes out several more times without incident and as Nick's scars faded, so had his unwillingness to go out in public, so they'd gone out for drinks a couple of times, and tried out this new Pakistani restaurant together. They'd enjoyed their meal so much that Nick had chosen it for his celebration

Warrick reflected back on their first visit here. They'd chatted over baskets of paneer naan and fiery hot tandoori wings, washed down with pitchers of ice-cold mango tea. After a while, he'd tried to steer their conversation to more serious things, but he could tell from the cool reception he was receiving that it wasn't going to go too far, so he'd let it go. He knew Nick was seeing a shrink, despite his initial protests, after it was explained to him quite clearly that it was mandatory if he ever wanted to come back to work. He hoped Nick was talking to the doc, because he sure as hell wasn't talking to him.

His reflection was interrupted by Catherine touching his knee, asking to be let out of her seat. She made her apologies to the group stating that she'd made a promise to Lindsey that they'd run out to buy the most recent Harry Potter book and she had to run so Linds could read at least two chapters before bed.

Leaning over, she said, "Excuse the curry breath!" and gave Nick a big smooch and a hug. "I'll see you tomorrow night, right?"

He gave her a quick squeeze and said, "You bet." Then he hugged her a bit tighter and whispered, "Thanks, Cath. For everything," in her ear. She punched him on the shoulder and ran off with a full blush spreading on her face. Warrick was pretty sure he was the only one else who heard it.

The evening wound down pleasantly, and the server brought by the check. Everyone scrambled for their wallets and Brass said he'd catch Cath's portion. Warrick grabbed the check with a smile, and announced that dinner was on him tonight. The pronouncement was greeted with small cheers from Greg and Sara and Grissom put his wallet away with a raised eyebrow. Warrick caught a look from Nick. "Hey, I inherited some money from an old aunt. Let me spread the wealth, huh? This _is_ going to be a one time event- right?" he said with a pointed look at Nick. Nick gave a small smile back in response and put his wallet away in his jeans back pocket.

The check settled with a very generous tip, the gang filtered out to the exit. Sara gave her own quick hug and a kiss, bringing with it a whiff of fennel and coriander. "See you 'round?" she asked. The night shift swing shift changeover was still unsettled and no one knew when or how they'd get the logistics straightened out. But Grissom had started the ball rolling and promises had been made. For now, they'd each be returning to their separate shifts.

Grissom and Nick exchanged a quick handshake, not quite meeting each other's eyes, Warrick noticed.

_I see there are still some things to be sorted out there, too._

Now, it was just the two of them and they loitered outside the building in the sweltering heat that lingered all night, only to intensify the next morning.

Nick fixed him with a look. "So, give it up, Bro. I know your Grams is an only child. So who's the 'aunt'? Was it more like Uncle Bookie that got you all this dough you're laying out?"

Warrick smiled. "I put some money down on the Rangers game. Just for you, Man. I mean, I was backing the Rangers! They haven't won half their games yet this season! They beat the spread, though. Blalock and Gonzalez have been hot. And it _was_ Tampa Bay. But still--"

Nick broke into his spiel. "Who are you bullshitting? I'm the only one here, Rick. What about the dirt bikes?"

It was Warrick's turn to be uncomfortable under his friend's pointed stare and look of concern.

_Yeah, well, two can play at this game…_

"I told you. I got them for like, next to nothing. I threw some money on your team. That's it. End of story. Thought it might be a nice gesture to pick up your dinner. I know money's been tight since you've been off. But you can pay me if you like for your portion. You'll be back on full pay now, right?" His voice had turned cool at the end, and he tried to regain their former friendly banter. He stuck his hand in his pocket and played with the change he found there, his nimble fingers seeking out and grabbing the silver dollar coin, finding odd reassurance in its presence. "C'mon, Nick. I'm sorry. Look - I had a little luck and wanted to share it with my best friend. Don't make it out to be more than it is."

Nick gave a small chuckle and muttered something under his breath that Warrick didn't quite catch, but sounded like, "a _little_ luck?"

He was about to ask his friend what he'd said but something held him back. He didn't want to ruin his buddy's big evening. Besides, Nick was already smiling and shaking his head.

Grabbing on to the renewed good vibe, he commented on how well Nick seemed to be doing.

Nick looked at him askance, obviously debating telling him something. "When I told you I wasn't having nightmares…well that was _me_ bullshitting _you._" He gave a small laugh. "Thought I'd figured out how to deal with them but found myself on a path I wasn't willing to take. I bit the bullet and talked to my doc about upping my sleeping pill dosage. You, know, he's pretty cool for a department shrink. Guess he's used to dealing with stubborn cops all day." Another small laugh. "Told him the prescription he wrote wasn't hacking it. Turns out he'd started me on the minimum dosage. He told me I could take more, and if it stops working or I develop a tolerance…well, let's just say I'll cross that bridge when and _if_ I get to it. It's amazing how your whole outlook improves with a full eight hours at night."

Warrick found a huge grin spreading across his face. "Jeez, that's fantastic. Wow. That's great, Man. I mean it. It's so good to see my old bud back."

Nick looked like he was debating sharing more with him, but the moment passed, and Nick told him he had to get going. "I've got like, this whole bedtime routine thing, and going back to work is gonna screw the whole thing up royally," he said with a rueful chuckle.

Warrick impulsively leaned over and gave him a quick one-armed hug, giving Nick the manly two pounds on the back then a hasty separation. "I'll catch you tomorrow night, right?"

"You bet. Looking forward to it. G'night."

They split and headed for their vehicles. Warrick watched as Nick headed for his Tahoe, then noticed his friend slowing as he approached his truck. His friend's behavior struck him as odd, and he started walking over to where Nick had stopped five feet from his truck. As he neared, he saw the reason why. Nick's truck had been hit, the rear bumper hanging, the taillight smashed. He waited for an explosion of anger, and was dismayed to see his friend silently nodding his head. By the time he reached the truck Nick was already squatting on the ground, picking up the pieces of his broken taillight. Warrick took a quick survey of the vehicles left in the parking lot. Nick's was the only one with apparent damage.

"Are you shitting me? Oh, Man, Nick." He found himself unable to form any words of comfort for his buddy. "Nick? What are you doing, Man?"

Never ceasing in his search, Nick replied, "No reason for someone to get a flat tire from this."

_Leave it to Nick …_he thought, shaking his head with a sigh.

He bent to help Nick pick up the remainder of the sharp plastic pieces, aware there would be no picking up the pieces of their ruined evening.


	10. Chapter 10

_Damn, it's hot._

It was the third week of September, and summer was technically over, but someone forgot to tell the weather. It had been the hottest September on record, temps hitting one twenty plus just about every day. And the winds were worse. Strong Easterly winds, blowing in from California. All the moisture they'd come in from the Pacific with long since lost in their journey across Death Valley, the winds had exchanged moisture for heat and sand. They whipped across the city, stinging faces and forcing foot traffic off the streets into the welcoming arms of the casinos. Out here, away from the protection of the larger buildings, the winds had free rein to gust and tear at clothing and flesh. Sunglasses and long sleeves were mandatory if you wished to spend more than a minute outside.

And here Nick stood, waiting for instructions.

He'd done his time like a probie back in the lab, but things had gone so smoothly that he'd been returned to the field. And none to early. The lab work was okay at the start. It had kinda been like a refresher, giving him the time to get his feet back under him, and he had enjoyed the company of the other denizens of the Labitrail. He'd been worried, at first, that everyone would stare and point and laugh or turn away. It hadn't happened. At least that he'd seen. Nothing much had changed at the lab. Jacqui was still her normal acerbic self. Bobby was still a laid back Southern gentleman, kinda like the guys back home in Texas that Nick remembered. He liked hanging around with Archie because he could get his geek on, without the pointed stares from Warrick that reminded him he was nowhere near as cool as his buddy. And Hodges…well, he gave Nick about three days before making really shitty jokes about Nick feeling _antsy. Hardy har har…_

But back in the field was where he felt best. His skills actually being used to their full potential, his confidence greatest. And Grissom couldn't deny him his chance to get back out here forever. So for a month now he'd been out, even though he tended to still get teamed up with Catherine, or Grissom, or Warrick. Better than not out at all. And everything had returned to normal, a way he'd been striving for since his 'resurrection'.

The heat had continued throughout the tail end of summer, and Labor Day weekend had been one of the busiest he could remember. When the winds had blown in, most people were forced indoors, and crime had slowed a bit, letting those in the Las Vegas CSI lab catch their breath.

But now they had a bad one. Stan Jacobs, a record producer, and his wife and their adult son had been slaughtered in their exceptionally large and spacious home. Standing in the driveway, leaning against the Denali, its door propped open to block some of the wind, he surveyed the property, chaotically lit by four or five police cars' gumball lights. Seven-bedroom estate. Carefully groomed landscaping, meticulously kept. Neatly trimmed topiary bushes shaped like animals and nude women. All screamed _nouveau riche_. Expensive, but supremely tacky. It lacked only …no. Wait. There it was. The fountain with the little boy peeing out a constant stream of water, surrounded by gold angels. Yup. Tacky.

The whole team was there, Greg, Sara, Warrick, and himself waiting for their orders from Grissom and Catherine. The two chiefs were being especially gracious to each other their first time out together as peers since Grissom's pronouncement, cognizant of the need to not step on toes or feelings. It was painful watching two such smart and aggressive people doing the, 'no, you first' dance. The four of them stood by, tapping their feet, waiting for one of their bosses to seize the bull by the horns and hand out some instructions, damn it. They exchanged eye rolls as the two supervisors walked over in tandem, neither willing to arrive first.

_If this is what its gonna be like when we merge full time, maybe we should scrap the whole plan,_ Nick moaned to himself. Noting the looks on his friends' faces, he figured their lines of thought were pretty similar to his own

At their arrival, there was another hesitation while the two internally debated who would talk first. Nick figured Catherine was the one whose pride was most in jeopardy, and thought to give her a bit of an up.

"Hey, Cath. What's it look like in there?"

She flashed him a small grateful look, and summed up the scene for the four criminalists. "Mom and Dad are in their bedroom. Mom in bed. Dad in a heart-shaped Jacuzzi." At this she gave a small eye roll. "The son was in his room sitting at a computer. All three shot at close range. Looks professional. Appears the son went first. Silencer most likely used, as Mom and Dad don't look disturbed. Or, there may have been more than one assailant."

She glanced at Grissom. He remained silent, apparently willing to let her run with this one, so she continued. "Warrick, you and Nick get the grounds. Sara, Greg, you guys come back inside with me. And Gris…he'll be wherever the hell he feels like, I guess," she said with a small smile and an amused glance at her mute companion.

Grissom merely raised an eyebrow and wandered off to talk to Brass and O'Reilly, slowing when he noted the presence of the Sheriff standing behind them. His hesitation was momentary but spoke volumes.

Catherine gave a bigger smile when she realized what Grissom had chosen for himself, then slapped Nick on the arm and told them to get going. She went back into the house, Sara and Greg trailing behind her. Nick had a quick flash of a momma duck with two baby ducklings. Then as he noticed Warrick looking questioningly at his enigmatic smile, he cleared his throat, and put a somber face back on. Work Face.

"I'll take the back yard. You can take the front. It's too tacky out here for me, Man. It's giving me hives," he said, another smile involuntarily forming.

Warrick looked like he was gonna throw out odds and evens, then changed his mind and nodded, wandering off to check out the nearest shrub, shaped like a roaring lion.

Nick grabbed a flashlight and headed off to the back yard. It was primarily green lawn. In this heat and drought he had a pretty good idea how much money was being spent on keeping it that verdant.

He checked out the back of the house. Florida room off the back. Back door locked. Screens all appeared intact. Back gardens as carefully maintained as the front, but limited to xeric landscaping- cacti, succulents, and expensive looking stone. He grimaced as a gust of wind hit him in the face and he spat out grit. Plucked a few cigarette butts out from the rocks. Lipstick on them. _Mrs. Jacobs? _Pulled out a small envelope and slipped them in, sealing the top. Moving to the back of the garage he checked that door. Locked as well. Turning, he scanned the whole of the yard from the back of the house. A few random cops poking their flashlights into the bushes that ran along the one side of the property. And a large shed on the very back of the property.

He began ambling over to the shed, his pace quickening as he was caught with another blast of hot stinging wind. It had a small unlocked and open padlock hanging on the hasp. He snapped a few pictures of the lock and the door, and then removing his camera and putting it on the ground, he opened the door and removed the lock, putting it into a plastic storage bag. He clicked on his flashlight and entered the structure. Typical garden shed. Metal frame shelves piled high with gardening supplies ran the length and breadth of three sides of the shed. Rakes, shovels, and hoes leaned up against the last side.

He walked to the back of the shed, shining the light over each shelf's contents. His eyes had caught a glimpse of what looked like the muzzle of a pistol and he was stretching a gloved hand towards it when he heard a loud bang as the door slammed shut behind him. He whirled around and struck the flashlight on the shelving, its grid work catching the light and ripping it from his hand. The flashlight struck the ground and extinguished upon impact, plunging him into complete and utter darkness.

A/N: TBC soon, I promise. Ending here for the effect…and because it is one o'clock in the morning.


	11. Chapter 11

His brain told him it was the wind that blew the door shut. Ten paces and he would be at the door, and able to open it to freedom_. It isn't the same as the last time. _

His body didn't quite believe him. His adrenal glands kicked in, their potent juices hitting his heart and ratcheting its rate tenfold. Absent any wind now, the shed became a dry sauna, the heat enveloping and smothering. Seizing the moisture from his mouth and air passages. Cotton in his throat. Dead silence but for the rush of his surging blood pressure in his ears and the sound of his ragged breathing.

He closed his eyes in an attempt to bring his bodily functions under control. Tried slowing his breathing, but as he breathed more deeply the heat entered his lungs and suffused his body, bringing his already elevated temperature up.

Squatting where he stood he felt around the ground for the lost flashlight. His fingertips brushed the very end where it had rolled under the nearest shelf. Only a couple of inches in which to manoeuvre his hand and he felt it roll further away. He stood up in defeat.

_Okay…no light. Just walk to the door._

He could yell for help. Plenty of cops around. Just what he wanted- to be rescued. Again. _Not an option. _

Mentally orienting himself, he took three steps towards what he thought should be the door, and felt his ankle contact something that fell into his path, tripping him up and causing him to lurch forward. His hand grabbed blindly for support and succeeded only in finding more handles that gave under his touch and fell clattering to the ground.

His normally competent antiperspirant finally succumbed and sweat began trickling in rivulets down his sides under his shirt. His forehead was already past beaded, and he wiped irritably with his latex clad hand at his eyes, the salty sweat causing them to sting and burn. The latex just moved the sweat around instead of absorbing it so he pulled the tails of his shirt out of his pants and wiped his face.

Blinking a few times to clear the last of the stinging he tried once more to gather himself. He knew where he was. He knew why he was there. There was a door. He could exit whenever he wanted to. Just had to get there. He could now picture where he was and he forced himself to remain calm and refused to do what his body was telling him to do - screaming at him to do, which was sprint for the door.

He strode purposefully to the door and as his hand pushed the door it flew open to reveal Warrick framed against the night sky.

He pushed past his friend without a word, hoping his fear and anxiety wasn't apparent. Warrick grabbed his arm and tried to stop him. He shook his friend's hand free and took a few more steps before turning to face him.

Before he could say a word-

"Nick. What the hell were you doing in there?"

"My job."

"What were you thinking shutting the door? It must be over a hundred and fifty in there. And where's your flashlight?"

"I didn't shut the door. The wind musta caught it."

Warrick looked like he was about to say something more but Nick figured he must not be as good an actor as he hoped because Warrick brought himself up short from his next pointed question.

"Jeez, Nick. How long were you in there? Are you okay?"

"Fine."

"Well the way your eyes are going all glazy and the sweat covering your entire body tells me otherwise. Why don't you grab a bottle of water and sit in the truck for a while? Take a chill. Literally, Man. You need to cool down a bit."

"I'm fine," he repeated.

Warrick lowered his voice and moved his face in closer to Nick, apparently conscious of the presence of the cops still wandering the perimeter. "Nick. Less than four months ago you were spending the night in the Cardiac Unit. Do yourself a favor before you wind up back there. Go back to the truck and turn on the AC. On high."

"I have a job to do, Warrick. Back off. Give me your flashlight."

The look on his face must have been something else, because his partner handed over the light without argument.

He grabbed the flashlight, turned it on, and re-entered the shed, this time stepping nimbly over all the fallen garden tools. He felt Warrick enter the shed silently behind him.

He made his way back to the shelf where he had seen the gun and reached back to grab it by the very end of the exposed muzzle. A Heckler and Koch 9mm by the look of it. Bobby would know for sure. Reversing the gun and grabbing it by the very end of the butt he walked the firearm back out of the shed. Grabbing anther plastic storage bag, he dropped the weapon in and sealed the top. Forcing himself to follow procedure he pulled a Sharpie from his vest and initialed and dated the seal. He noticed his hand shaking as he wrote _N. Stokes 9/23/05. _

Warrick had exited behind him, maintaining a hovering pattern around him. He again hoped fruitlessly that his friend wouldn't notice the shake, but it was difficult to hide under such close scrutiny. He caught another concerned look from his friend.

Sighing, he handed over the flashlight back to his partner. He grabbed the tail of his shirt and wiped away the perspiration that had re-accumulated on his forehead and had his eyes burning again.

His heart rate was still way up and he felt lightheaded. Worse, he felt utterly depressed. And angry. _Five minutes in a fucking garden shed _and he was weak-kneed and sweating. So much for back to normal. And 'the look' was back, pasted all over his partner's face. Rather than deal with him, he figured he'd take the easy route and walk away.

He lowered his head and tried to keep his pace slow so as to not attract any unwanted attention. Made it unnoticed to the driveway. He opened the door of his truck, assaulted by the waft of new heat that escaped through the open door. He turned the key on and started the AC running. Ripped off the heavy Kevlar vest. A blast of scorching hot wind struck him leaving sand glued in the sweat coating his face. He ripped off the latex gloves and threw them on the passenger seat then rubbed his sweaty palms on his pants. Checked his hands. Still a slight tremble, so he balled them up into fists, then stretched his fingers back out, trying to work it out.

He still had the handgun, so he walked to the back of the truck and popped the hatch, pulling open the rear storage area. He placed it into a lockbox and shut the hatch back up. Walked back around to the driver side and hauled himself up into the seat. Shut the door and let his head fall back onto the headrest.

His enjoyment of the AC was short-lived as the passenger side door opened up and his partner climbed up into the adjoining seat, shutting the door behind him. Warrick reached into the back and pulled out a bottle of water, handing it to Nick without a word. He took the bottle, a nod the only allowance for gratitude he felt but didn't particularly feel like showing. Polishing off the bottle in a series of long pulls, the cool water gushed down his throat, the liquid washing away some of the heat and grit but sitting like a cold stone upon its arrival in his stomach.

He thought briefly of closing his eyes and wishing away his friend.

_Nope. Wishing your friends into cornfields only works in the Twilight Zone. _

He turned to look at Warrick, knowing his friend was itching to say something. Mentally shaking his head he audibly sighed. "What?"

"Nothing. Just wanted to make sure you were okay. Are you?"

"Yup. Fine."

Now it was Warrick's turn to sigh. "Yeah. You look _fine_," he said, sarcasm dripping from the words.

"I _am_ fine. Leave it go, Rick."

"Man, cut yourself some slack, Bro. We all know how great you've been doing. Give yourself some credit. The door blew shut. Just …"

His voice trailed off but Nick heard the words anyway. _Just bad luck_. Yup.

"Nick, Man. Don't let it shake you. One ripple. That's all. Man, you've been doing so well… I mean, if it had been me…"

That was the straw. Somewhere a camel screamed in pain.

"It _wasn't_ you, Warrick."

"Shit, I know that. But I mean, it was just a coin toss- it could've--"

"No. It couldn't have been. Never would have been. Before that fucking coin ever hit the air, you and I _both_ know who was going in that goddamned box."


	12. Chapter 12

_What the hell is that supposed to mean?_

Warrick sat stunned by his friend's words, their impact almost physical, delivered like a punch to his gut.

Nick's eyes were impenetrable, dark chocolate orbs piercing, behind narrowed lids. And just as he felt himself reacting by pushing back into the seat, he saw the eyes relax and sadden. It struck him that these sad eyes were the ones he'd been seeing all too often. Even before …

He gathered himself, not willing to be baited into an argument at this time but completely mystified by his friend's pronouncement.

"What exactly is that supposed to mean?" he asked warily.

Nick pulled his eyes away and appeared to stare off through the windshield. Red and blue lights continued to flash, reminding Warrick of the last time he'd noted the presence of so many lights.

_There were more that night - a lot more…_

"Hey, Nick. You can't say something like that, then drop it like you never said it. You mind telling me what's going on in that head of yours?"

Sighing, and looking like the words were causing him great pain to utter, Nick closed his eyes, and asked a question that had never been voiced before.

"How many people you figure Nigel Crane installed cable for, huh? A thousand? Five thousand? Ten? I mean, he worked for Luna Cable for _eleven years. _Eleven years, Man. And he stalked _me_. And Jane Galloway. What are the odds, huh?" At this last there was an odd choked off chuckle.

Warrick closed his eyes and rubbed at his face. He fought the urge to put his hand in his pocket. How many jokes had been cracked about Nick's propensity for getting himself into trouble? About how bad luck seemed to seek him out.

Nick continued, the dam broken, the words flowing like a spring rain swollen river - words cresting and falling, sometimes breeching the banks.

" I mean, I fall for one girl in all the time I've been in Vegas. How many men you figure Kristi slept with? A thousand? Five thousand?" Dark smile. "And I get her killed. And then come that close to losing my job for it- that close to _prison_ for Christ's sake! It'd have been worth it, you know. If I could have saved her. She was so young. She had so much to offer. God, she was beautiful. And she got me. Really got me." His hands wrapped around the steering wheel, knuckles whitening, then relaxing.

His head turned toward Warrick and the quiet words he uttered were worse than anything Warrick had heard from his best friend since he'd known him. Worse than seeing Nick sobbing and shaking and begging for release from his grave. Worse than any words they'd exchanged in the multitude of arguments they'd had over the years.

"Sometimes it's hard being your friend."

_How the hell do you respond to that?_ You don't. Warrick sat in silence, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Do you know what I got for my first evaluation under Grissom? I got a riddle. A stupid fucking riddle that if I'd taken half a second to think about I could've answered. But I wasn't expecting it- figured it's a joke- wait for the punch line. But no. Grissom tells me my wrong answer proves I'm a bad CSI."

His eyes rose to meet Warrick's, leaving him feeling supremely uncomfortable. He knew what was coming next.

"Word is, you got a rare roller-coaster ride with the Big Guy."

He couldn't hide the wince as the words dropped. He couldn't deny it. _A riddle? Grissom tested him with a riddle?_

"You know when you screwed up and Holly got killed?"

_Whoa! Don't hold your punches, Man. Jeez…_

"There was a tiny awful evil part of me that hoped you'd finally be the one to get in trouble. To be the screw up. But no. Hell, I'd just earned the Level Three job and Grissom threw you your own promotion to Three. You're Teflon, Man. Adamantium. You could fall in a pile of crap and come up smelling like a rose. I talk for two minutes to a guy I haven't seen since college, and I catch holy hell. Grissom must think I am the biggest waste of time, Man. I know he doesn't think much of me as a CSI, and since that's all that I am, he must not think much of me as a man."

Nick continued relentlessly, his gaze into Warrick's eyes never faltering, "You know, when you started falling for Lillie, I was really jealous. She was gorgeous, Man. God, those eyes! And that voice! But I knew I didn't have a snowball's chance. Jesus, you even play the frickin' piano like a master. How does a guy compete with that? And when it started to dawn on me what was going on with her, I felt horrible. I mean, I pushed you at her. But again, a small part of me I don't even want to admit exists was glad to be the one to help you out. I got to be the rescuer for a change. Do you have any idea how that feels, Rick? To be glad that your best friend is hurting? To be happy that I wasn't Fate's bitch for once? To see the cosmic Karmic scales shift?"

Warrick allowed the words to rain over him, absorbed them into his skin, took them in and tasted them. He recalled the circumstances of the last time he'd examined his history with luck. Standing outside the ER, waiting to find out if Nick would live or die. He'd found the coin in his pocket … had reflected on the good luck he'd had his whole life. It was something he'd always taken for granted. Born under a lucky star. His Grams always told him he was blessed.

"You know, maybe I am a lucky guy, Nick. And maybe you aren't. And maybe we are on two sides of the Karmic scales or whatever. But part of my luck is having you as a friend. Nick, Man. You've proved yourself ten times over to Grissom. Hell, to all of us. You're more than a series of misfortunes. You _proved _you've got it all over us. _Because_ of what you went through. All of it. You _have_ taken more than your share of shit over the years, yet here you are. Doing the job. Catching the bad guys. And despite what you say, you _have_ been there for me. Lots of times. And I need you to be there for me. We're partners, Bro. Yeah, I got your back, but I know you've got mine. That's all we need. Take the luck as it comes, and roll with the punches."

"You don't understand, Rick. I don't know if I will always have your back. I'm a lightning rod. A freak magnet. A black hole of bad luck, sucking in everyone around me. People around me die. I can't let that happen again. I mean, Grissom almost got blown up when he went to meet Gordon. He almost took all of us when the box exploded. Jane. Kristi… Jesus, even poor Mr. Pearson."

Warrick shook his head, a small smile forming. "Hey, two sides of the scale, right? I'm not scared. I'm adamantium, yeah? What is that …some geek comic reference? Anyway, you can't shove me off. I'm here. Bring it on. I'm not going anywhere, Bro. You're stuck with me. Deal with it."

Nick looked like he was going to disagree, but their conversation was interrupted by a banging on the door. It was Grissom. Warrick hit the down button and the electric window slid open.

The supervisor looked questioningly at the two of them. "What's up, guys? Everything okay?"

"Yeah, Gris. Everything's fine. Sorry. I just got overheated. I was feeling a bit light-headed and Nick was checking up on me. It's all good. We'll be right out to join you."

"I'm glad you guys are cognizant of the effects of heat on the human body. Keep an eye on each other. We've got extreme temperatures out here we're trying to work in and I want everyone on their guard for heat exhaustion. Nick, thanks for looking after Warrick. You guys have water?"

"Yeah, Boss. Thanks. We're good to go," Nick said, raising his bottle as evidence.

"All right then, why don't you two switch off with Greg and Sara. That gaudy monstrosity at least has some impressive central air. Take your turn inside. Then spell the other two. Good?"

"Yeah, Boss. All good."

Grissom slapped the side of the truck and headed back inside to take part in his own advice.

"We are good, right, Bro?" Warrick asked.

"Yeah, sure. All good. Can't wait to see Greg out here for ten minutes. He'll wish he stayed in the nice air-conditioned lab."

A/N: just the epilogue left. Very sad.


	13. Chapter 13

October brought a change in the winds. As they shifted north they blew in over the Sierra Nevadas, cooling and slowing, and bringing with them gorgeous clear and milder sunny days punctuated by sudden bursts of rain. Street cafés brought their tables back out to the sidewalks. Kids returned to playing in their yards. Locals and tourists alike reveled in the cooler temperatures.

With the relief came a slowing in the crime rate. Normal bar squabbles and road rage incidents no longer led to hot tempers and gunfire. Families enjoyed each other's company for a while.

Of course nothing could completely stop crime in the City that Never Sleeps. Which led to Nick and Warrick's presence outside a crack house in the seedier part of town. A neighbor had called city police to complain about the incessant barking of a dog at the house across the street. Police arrival several hours later had found an extremely angry woman in curlers and a house coat wagging her finger at them and two dead bodies. Apparent OD's, but who could tell for sure. Which was why CSI was there.

The coroner was working on the victims inside and Nick and Warrick lingered out front, chatting, enjoying the relative freedom of a less than needed CSI presence.

"So, Mr. Man of the Hour. Nice attaboy from Grissom, huh?" Warrick asked Nick.

Nick's discovery of the firearm in the shed had started a chain of events that led to two arrests in the murders of the record producer and his family. Turned out the gun was registered to the son. He'd turned the very expensive weapon over to a high-powered dealer as partial payment for an exceptionally large amount of cocaine. Seemed sonny boy wanted to get into dealing coke, but lacked his father's keen business sense, and wound up reneging when he couldn't come up with the rest of the payment. Worse, he couldn't turn the product back over to the dealer since he'd already sniffed most of it up his nose, and shared it with six women he'd invited over to 'party' with him. Grissom had made a point of praising Nick's work at the meeting they'd had at beginning of shift.

Nick gave Warrick an eye roll, but he was secretly more than a little pleased.

Loud barking off to the side of the house distracted him and he turned to see a large mastiff type dog, front paws planted on the chain link fence that partitioned off the tiny yard. The house was typical for its kind. Peeling paint. Sagging front porch. Overgrown shrubs and dead weeds filled where there may have once been gardens. Trash strewn about and caught in the bushes. And copious amounts of dog doody.

Nick picked his way back to the fence, approaching the dog slowly. The dog stopped barking, and its tail started wagging furiously, kicking up a mini tornado in the dead leaves that covered the yard. Nick held a hand out towards the beast; his reward a hand licked clean and left dripping with doggy drool. He moved in closer and reached a hand over to pet the humongous head, scratching the dog between the ears. He murmured quietly to the mutt. "Hey, boy, you're a big one, ain't ya? Good boy."

He heard Warrick approaching from behind him and dropped his hand. The dog resumed barking.

"We should probably call animal control for this guy, huh?"

"Yeah. I'm sure LVPD already did, but we can make sure they do if not. So … ummm…don't take this the wrong way, but I've been thinking on what we talked about. You know. At the producer's house."

Nick raised his eyebrows at this and waited silently. He knew he had unloaded a huge pile of shit on his friend, and he'd actually been surprised he'd let it go as long as he had. Figured since he'd done most of the talking that night, was only fair to let his partner have his piece.

"I got you a little something to add to your new bling."

Nick hesitated for a second, then got the reference, his hand rising involuntarily to where his brand new shiny Medic-Alert pendant hung on a silver dog tag chain under his shirt. He had never been one for jewelry, and it still felt odd, the cool metal pressure on his chest. His doctor had recommended it and it had seemed especially prudent since he and Catherine had been discussing his return to solo work.

"My _bling_, huh? Okay. Let's see it."

Warrick brought out a small paper bag from his pocket and handed it over to Nick, his expression that of a kid who had just drawn his mom a Crayola masterpiece.

Nick unwrapped the bag to find a silver dollar coin, a hole drilled through the top of Kennedy's head.

"Is this some kind of sick Kennedy in Dallas reference, cuz I'm not getting it. Sorry, Bro."

Warrick's smile faltered a bit. "No, Man. It's the coin. _The _coin. The one we flipped that night."

He'd obviously seen the look of horror beginning on his face that Nick couldn't help, despite the apparently friendly gesture.

"No. No, Man. Hear me out. Like you said. The coin didn't put you in the box. You can say Karma- I say psycho Walter Gordon. Whatevs. But ever since that night, this coin has been… God, Nick. This is gonna sound warped, I know. But it's brought me luck. I mean luck like I never had before. I had a good run with it, but the gambling thing- it's old. Not gonna get me where I need to be. Where I need to be going someday. So I figured, maybe you could use a little luck. That's all."

Nick's face must have shown he still remained dubious.

"I'm totally serious, Man. You know us gamblers are superstitious buggers. Look at Candy Man. Damn chocolate cost him his life. But I don't need this. And you seem to think that you do. So wear it or don't. Hell, toss it in Lake Mead if you don't want it."

Nick considered his friend's gesture. _What the hell…couldn't bring any worse luck than I've already got._

He pulled the dog tags free from around his neck and undid the clasp. Slid the coin onto one end where it fell to rest next to his pendant that read _Allergy to insect bites/bee stings_, with a red caduceus on the flip side. Refastening the clasp he returned the chain to its former place, the coin heavy against his chest.

"Thanks, Man. I think," he said with a laugh.

Dave was on his way over, and he gave them the heads up that it was undoubtedly overdoses that killed the two men inside. The ME's wagon had already pulled up and the black bagged bodies were being loaded into the back. "Looks like there's no reason for you two to be here. Thanks for showing, though."

"No, problem, Dave. That's the job, right? Hey, you know if the cops called Animal Control for the monster back there? Hate to see the poor thing starve to death."

"Yeah, I heard one of them make the call. Well, see you guys 'round."

Warrick slapped his hands together, rubbing them with glee. "C'mon. Let's grab something to eat before we have to head back. I'm starved. Cath won't know we finished up here so soon. We got time to grab some chow. How 'bout an In N Out burger and a cherry Coke" Seeing the grin appearing on Nicks face, he continued, "Yeah. I know what my boy likes. Alright, let's roll."

And with that he took off, his long legs taking great strides across the yard towards the road where the truck was parked. He was only a few feet from the sidewalk when his foot struck a pile of fresh dog crap, covered by dead leaves, still wet and slippery from the most recent downpour. He lurched forward and landed on one knee and his outstretched hands struck just shy of the sidewalk.

Nick ran over to find Warrick sitting on the ground, the one knee of his pants green with grass stains, his shoe covered in dog doo, and decent amount of blood pouring from his hand.

"Rick, Man! You okay? What happened to your hand?"

"I landed on a screw. All this trash around, it would have been weird if I hadn't hit anything. Ah, shit. Now I'm gonna need a tetanus shot. And these were my favorite pants, too. Goddamnit. Hey…hey, Nick! Wha… are you laughing, Man? Stop laughing! It's not funny. Yeah, all right, ha ha. Just help me up would ya?"

Nick took the time to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye, and stifled his laughter long enough to put out a hand to help his friend up.

"Sorry, Man. I just think I felt a shift in my Karma."

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That's all she wrote. Literally. Thanks for taking the ride with me. I must apologize for the misconception that my last chapter would be sad. I was actually saying that _I_ was sad since the story was ending. This story wound up being a little more personal than originally planned. My best friend and I have a similar dynamic- she's the Warrick, and I am definitely the Nick. My friends love reminiscing about my misadventures and misfortunes. Those stories always get the biggest laughs. But when they are happening, there is only one person I would want there, and that's her. But dang, that girl is Lucky. What ya gonna do? We play the cards we're dealt with, right?

So happy ending for our boys. And I already have a new one ready to start. I'll tease you with the title: _Tabula Rasa, _and you can count on my main man being the focus, with generous amounts of the rest of the gang. Action adventure mixed with a smidge or three of angst. Hopefully in the right combination.

Thanks to my reviewers, and those who read without leaving their marks. Hope you enjoyed. Take care, and hope to see you next time.


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